Echo and Ephemera

This is my second go at blogging, and I think a bit of explanation is in order.

Why: accountability to writing, mainly ( also a good way for friends and family to keep up with my adventure in Paris later this summer - yay!)

Poème: the french word for poem...the medium in which I hope to do most of my "blogging," a forum to post new and old material. I've learned that, simply put, a poem is a piece of communication as art, as metaphor, and as it moves outward, also moves inward -- that is all I wish for this next venture in online expression.

Echo and Ephemera: the titles to two beautiful poems (posted below) on the surface about love, but more deeply about reflecting, searching, finding, letting go, and moving on. I thought they might be appropriate "mascots" for this blog.

A bit about recent events: Two weeks ago I walked away from my life as a teacher. There is too much to say about the past three years, but I'm sure the remnants of my experiences will be revealed in many ways through this new forum of expression. We'll see. I finished the school year and resigned without knowing what the next step is...I am both extremely proud and daunted by this decision.  As a result, I am certainly seeking...and looking forward to the journey ahead. I hope you'll enjoy joining me as I search through my observations and attempts to communicate in art, in metaphor.

"Echo" by Christina Rossetti

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.

Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again tho’ cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.

"Ephemera" by W. B. Yeats

'Your eyes that once were never weary of mine
Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids,
Because our love is waning.'
                                                  And then she:
'Although our love is waning, let us stand
By the lone border of the lake once more,
Together in that hour of gentleness
When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.
How far away the stars seem, and how far
Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!'

Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'

The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves
Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once
A rabbit old and lame limped down the path;
Autumn was over him: and now they stood
On the lone border of the lake once more:
Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves
Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes,
In bosom and hair.
                                   'Ah, do not mourn,' he said,
'That we are tired, for other loves await us;
Hate on and love through unrepining hours.
Before us lies eternity; our souls
Are love, and a continual farewell.'